


Laws more Just

by demon_rum



Category: Eagle of the Ninth Series - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demon_rum/pseuds/demon_rum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca is injured after the battle with the Seal People. Marcus tries to fix it. And again, everything is emo. EMO.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laws more Just

Esca sat for what felt like hours, leaning back against a fallen log and watching the fire. Occasionally he drifted off to sleep for a few minutes, jerking awake when his head sagged down to touch his knees. He suspected that proper Roman protocol would consider it more respectful if he stood to watch the cremation, but caring about that would require energy he didn't have. After the desperate flight from the Seal People, the lack of food the past 4 days (most of what he'd caught had gone to Marcus, who had needed it so much more), his race to find Guern and the other remaining legionaries, and the brief-but-violent battle with the Seal Warriors, Esca was surprised that he had helped Marcus build the funeral pyre. He hadn't had the strength for it; he felt like he hardly had the strength to eat. But Marcus had asked him to help and so Esca had said yes, partially out of respect for his master at what was obviously an emotional moment, and partially out of the pleasure of being asked rather than ordered.

 _Ex-master,_

Esca corrected himself mentally.    
__

_Not my master any longer. He called me his friend instead._

Marcus stood with his back to Esca, staring at the funeral pyre. Ceremony and tradition demanded that he stand and watch the flames until the logs turned to coal and Guern turned to ash, no matter how far they were from civilized Roman society; as a concession to his exhaustion and injured leg, occasionally he sat on the log next to Esca while one of the legionaries kept the vigil for him, but the rest of the time he stood, driven by some Roman impulse Esca didn't even bother trying to understand. They hadn't spoken to each other since his speech as he lit the pyre, although Marcus had taken and held his hand for a long moment after he saw Esca place his father's knife next to Marcus' carved eagle.

Esca could not explain, even to himself, why he had placed his father's knife on the fire. Respect for the dead on both sides, what Marcus had spoken of? A wish that the continuous conflicts between tribes would one day be settled by something less violent? The desire to move beyond his own private conflicts?

He shifted restlessly against the log and gently lay a hand on his left elbow, bound tightly with cloth he had pulled from a dead man's tunic. Not too much blood had seeped through, which was a relief. What an embarrassing injury. He had lunged with his right arm, let his left arm flail away from his body instead of guarding it, and took a sword thrust between arm and ribs as penalty. Cut right through tender muscle in the crook of the joint. Everything a warrior practiced and trained for, gone in a moment of carelessness and—yes, maybe it was carelessness brought on by a significant amount of exhaustion. That would never make a good excuse north of the wall. Up here people didn't get second chances. He had learned this as a child, sitting at his father's side while his father explained calmly, in an almost offhand manner, why exactly he was about to take Esca out behind the chicken hut and whip him until he could hardly walk. The goat had been saved for an important dinner the following month, and Esca had accidentally let a wolf take it while grazing. It didn't matter to anyone that Esca had been 7 at the time—old enough to walk, old enough to work, and old enough to know better.

 _You taught me that very well, Father, very thoroughly. Every beating I got as a slave reminded me of that one. And I spent years wondering if you'd have rather found me torn to bits and the goat intact._

(He felt pride and respect for his father, for his leadership and courage, just as any dutiful Brigante son should. Nothing in Brigante culture said he had to _miss_ his father as well.)

No second chances, no mistakes allowed, no forgiveness. Not even for a 7-year-old frightened of wolves.

7-year-olds. Something at the back of Esca's weary mind woke up. But his thoughts moved so slowly. What had he forgotten? He had missed something.

 _Shit_. He stumbled to his feet, startling Marcus out of his thoughts.

 _Ronan._

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Esca dragged himself away from the pyre and headed for the flat river bank where the other bodies had been layed out on the sand. He felt like he was trying to swim through mud as he moved through the rows of Roman and British dead, looking for one small grey-clad body, unconsciously cradling his aching left arm with his uninjured right. Legionaries, Seal Warriors, piles of shields and spears and helmets. But no Ronan.

A sudden hot fury rushed through his body, making his heart race and his head pound. The bodies blurred and he blinked frantically. How could they have forgotten? _Stupid fucking thoughtless Romans, only giving a shit about their own dead,_ _showing respect for their fallen soldiers and their noble enemies, totally overlooking the boy who had demonstrated_ _as much_ _courage_ _as any full-grown man_ _._ He tried not to think about the boy's last days, being dragged and carried along by the other warriors on their desperate chase, mistreated and cursed out and ignored by his father. Did he know what was ahead of him? Probably—every British child learned the hard, cold realities of life in the tribe as soon as they learned how to talk. And Esca had contributed it.

 _Why did I befriend him? I knew what could happen. I took the chance, for Marcus, and then I forgot about him. Helped built a pyre for Guern, and left him in the river. Stupid fucking me._

He splashed downstream, towards where Liathan had lain his son down almost gently in the water, hoping for and dreading what he might find.

Ronan _'_ s body was still face-down, hair and clothes shifting gently in the flowing river. Esca struggled with his bad arm to turn the boy over, and immediately regretted doing so. The pain in his elbow vanished as he looked at the water-swollen skin, the gaping neck... _No. No more of this. I can't_.He carefully removed the small sealskin cloak from around Rónán's shoulders, draping it over his head and chest. Please the gods he would never see that staring face again.

Esca straightened up for a moment, felt the blood rush through his ears, and stumbled a few feet away from the body before bending back over to retch into the water. He choked and coughed, eyes watering from the effort because vomiting on an empty stomach always hurt. As he lowered his hand down to cup water and rinse out his mouth a hand touched him on the small of the back; he looked up to see Marcus standing next to him, also gazing down at the body in the river.

They stood side by side for a long moment, before Marcus asked quietly “is there anything special we should do with him? Set him on the pyre?”

Esca shook his head. “No cremation. Burial, head pointed North, cairn over the body.” He paused; he wanted to weep. “But we don't have any shovels and Marcus, I'm sorry, I... I don't think I have the strength.”

Marcus looked at him closely, with an intensity in his eyes that made Esca's stomach tighten. “Can I help you get him out of the water?”

“Please. I can't do it on my own.” _In so many ways._

He took the body under the arms while Marcus lifted the legs, and they carefully moved to the far shore. The effort sent stabbing pains through Esca's injured arm, far sharper than they had been while he was resting. He had to stop and rest twice during the 30-odd feet they travelled, and each time they stopped the look in Marcus' eyes became a little more pointed.

“You look pretty exhausted. Anything else?”

Esca just shook his head. Non-serious wounds could be dealt with later. The child came first.

They lay Ronan on the soft sand, where they could easily scrape away the ground. They both dug with sticks and then knelt and continued with their hands and knees until the hole was deep enough to lay him in, working as intensely as they had to build the pyre for Guern. It wasn't a good burial, just a shallow trench with the muddy sand piled on top, but Marcus disappeared into the woods while Esca rested back, crouched on his heels; he returned a few minutes later with a few hand-sized rocks and three small purple primroses.

“I thought a flower might... I don't know if it's what... I wanted to put a flower down and this was all I could find. Is that appropriate?”

Esca gave a single small nod. “That will do.”

Marcus helped him up and Esca lay the few stones on the mound of sand. Marcus set the primroses on top and they looked helplessly at the grave for a moment. Esca sighed.

“If I knew what gods they worshipped I might know what to say. But they don't ride horses, so they probably don't look to Epona, and I'm sure they wouldn't want anything to do with the Brigante gods. So we will just leave him for the river waters. They head to the sea. Maybe that will be enough.”

Marcus took his hand and held it lightly. Esca glanced away, blinking. He had to get the words out.

“Master, I knew— _I knew_. I know what it's like, up here. And I did it anyways, I thought it was worth the risk. I told myself maybe things had changed. They haven't.”

Marcus squeezed his hand so tightly that Esca felt the bones of his palm grind together. He looked carefully into his freedman's face.

“This might be a good thing to talk more about later, Esca, but for now come back to the fire. Eat a bit of food. Get some sleep.”

Esca nodded numbly and started back across the river, while Marcus followed close behind. Fire and food seemed good, something simple and solid and healing.

As they slogged through the icy knee-deep waters the Briton stumbled, caught himself and fought for his balance. He almost made it his feet skidded on the slick rocks of the river-bed. Marcus grabbed him hard by the left elbow to keep him from falling forward. Esca made a terrible, panicked sort of noise, almost more of a grunt than a yell, as he felt pressure give way. An unexpected warmth flooded his arm. They both stared in disbelief for a moment as bright red blood, almost pink in the weak sunlight, poured down his arm. Marcus shoved the makeshift bandage off his arm and was struck in the face by fresh blood spurting out the crook of Esca's elbow, pulsing into the air with every heartbeat.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 __

“Vibonius!” Marcus shouted to one of the legionaires by the pyre. Vibonius whipped his head around to look, eyes widening as he took in the sight of the two men in the river, unexpectedly dripping with blood. His hand automatically started to his sword hilt before Marcus shouted again. “Help us out of this water— _now_!” He tightened his grip around the injured elbow, grabbed Esca around the waist and began half-carrying him towards shore.

Marcus spoke quickly but calmly to his freedman, who still stared at his arm and who was rapidly losing color in his face. “Esca, do _not_ pass out. Stand up, keep walking, one foot in front of the other. Are you with me?” Esca choked out a _yes_ and forced himself forward; he could feel all his warmth and remaining energy running down his arm, rushing off his fingertips to be swept away by the river. His elbow hurt intensely, which kept him focused; his feet, however, had gone strangely numb and couldn't seem to decide whether to step or lift or slide or float. He remembered that in a crisis or a battle it was never a poor idea to set short, measurable goals and then reevaluate your situation.

 _The shore—just get to the shore. Then you can fall over_.

Vibonius was at his side and Esca felt himself lifted off the rocks, nearly out of the water, although it was hard for him to be certain because suddenly he was having a terribly difficult time focusing on anything beside the sound of Marcus' voice, telling him not to pass out, he was going to be fine, the wound looked worse than it really was. They reached the shore and Esca sank down to his knees, dizzier than he had ever felt before and frighteningly weak. Marcus and Vibonius kept moving around, shifting things and shifting him and then everything went blank.

Something hit him hard on the side of his face.

The pressure tightening around his elbow startled him as much as the... it almost felt like a slap. He knew that feeling—masters sometimes hit their slaves like that. He'd been hit like that more than once. He must still be a slave, and his master wanted... No, that wasn't right. He opened his eyes, totally disoriented, and why was he looking up at the sky? Marcus' face was coming into view, but upside down.

“Are you with me?”

“Did you just hit me? Or did I dream that part? My arm—”

“Stop talking. You're going to be fine. Just stay with me.”

Esca noticed that his legs were sticking into the air, propped up on the log he had been leaning against while watching the pyre burn. His painful left arm also hung in the air, held straight up by Marcus, who gripped the elbow in a vise-like pinch. From this position on his back he could watch the glowing ash fall, drifting down towards the clouds and the infinite gray sky below him. His body wanted to fall too. He tried to ask Marcus to let his arm go but the words came out as nothing but shivering and stammering. Vibonius threw a blanket over him, legs and log and all.

“He's going into shock, Centurion. Look at him shake with cold. Too much blood loss.”

Marcus spoke through clenched teeth. “I can see that.” Esca was himself startled to notice that yes, as Vibonius had said, he actually felt tremendously cold if he thought about it. Better to think about the ashes instead.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Marcus knew, dimly, how the human body worked, mostly because they had taught him in the army all the many and varied ways to make it stop working. Good places to aim a sword-thrust: torso, face, neck, groin, legs if the intent was to cripple but not kill. That's why Romans wore armor in all those locations. But he knew the other places, too, where bodies were _thinner_ , as a commanding officer had once explained it to him. Small, hard to protect and harder to find but a good soldier could kill a man with one well-placed blow if he just nicked one of those spots. Inside the elbows, the pits under the arms, the inner thigh and right behind the knee. Fatal locations but tough to reach with a _gladius_ ; that knowledge was better suited to hand-to-hand combat and knife fights.

Marcus also knew, even more dimly, how to stop the bleeding. Mostly it involved pushing, hard, at the bleeding spot and raising it in the air. He wished now he had hung around the camp medics a little more, back in training, but soldiers tended to stay away from the people who might one day very soon be strapping them down to a table and sawing their injured limbs off. Occasionally, after a skirmish, he would stand around in the medical tent, trying to look encouraging as one of his soldiers underwent a ghastly surgery. Maybe he could remember how it went.

“Vibonius, can you round up some rope, clean cloth if possible, and a few small knives? Another pair of hands will also help.” The legionnaire headed off to see if any of the other remaining men could provide supplies. Meanwhile Marcus took a cautious peek at the wound, pressing one finger hard against the spot with the worst bleeding and carefully lifting the rest of the cloth to see just how much damage had happened. He didn't want to do anything stupid, like decide to cut Esca's arm off.

“Esca, I need to take a look at this wound. This may hurt.” Esca nodded. He looked dazed.

It was a clean cut, mostly just muscle tissue laid open, not full of dirt or debris. The problem came from what lay under his finger. If he moved it, even rolled it to the side a little, more blood tried to rush out as if it had gotten tired of being confined to Esca's body for so long. Esca shifted and tried to pull his arm away as Marcus spread the wound open a little further.

“What are you doing? My arm is going numb. Can you stop pushing so hard?”

“If I didn't push all your blood would spill onto the sand. I doubt you want that any more than I do. But don't worry, I know how to fix this sort of an injury. It will only take a few minutes.” He was babbling, but as long as he kept Esca focused and awake it wouldn't do any harm. Vibonius and another soldier, Titus, returned with knives and cloth. Esca frowned at them and shook his head.

“What's that for? You need to stuff moss in the wound. Or mouldy bread.”

Marcus winced. The tribes Rome conquered were so much less technologically advanced, it was a wonder any barbarian lived to adulthood.

“Don't worry about any of that. I know what to do. Vibonius, put the knives on the fire to heat up the blades. I need them glowing hot.”

Esca mumbled something about the arrogance of Romans and gave him a glare of pure skepticism, one that said _you, Centurion, do NOT know what you are doing_. Marcus tried a reassuring smile, one he'd seen the surgeon at Calleva make just before reopening his leg wound.

“Actually, Esca, I don't expect you to be familiar with Roman army training but every cohort centurion gets training as a combat medic before taking a position of field authority,” he lied as confidently as he could manage. Vibonius cocked an eyebrow and gave him a look that said _are you shitting me, Centurion? Total bullshit_. Marcus returned it with one that said _shut up—it's necessary bullshit_. “This will be over before you know it.”

Esca made eye contact for a long moment before closing his eyes. His face was ghostly pale and trembling; he nevertheless managed to scowl at Marcus as if his former master were a new puppy that had just widdled on the floor. “That's what the surgeon said about your leg. I actually remember it much better than you do, mostly because you passed out so quickly.”

Marcus, ignoring that, handed Esca's elbow over to Vibonius, showing him the exact spot to push on. Titus, who had seen this surgery done once before, moved to the Briton's good side and placed an arm on his chest, lightly. Then Marcus slipped a loop of rope around Esca's arm, almost up to the shoulder, and pushed a thick wad of cloth under the armpit. Without pausing to think too carefully about what he was doing (or what it must feel like) he tightened down the rope, twisting it again and again with a stick until the homemade garrote looked like it would break Esca's small arm in half. His freedman struggled and cursed and tried to pull away but Titus now leaned the weight of his body down on Esca, holding him down just like Esca had once held Marcus down.

Within a minute Esca's arm turned deathly gray. Vibonius slowly lifted his fingers from the elbow and Marcus was pleased to see the flow of fresh blood had slowed to a steady drip.

“Are the knives ready?” At that, Esca stopped struggling, scanned the grim faces of the Roman soldiers and gave Marcus a look of near-panic.

“Don't cut it off. Please. I can't spend my life a cripple. Master, don't take my arm. I won't let you. _Please_!”

“Esca!” Marcus bent down and stuck his face inches above his freedman's. He cupped Esca's white, stricken face in his hands. “I'm not cutting off your arm. All we're going to do is stop the bleeding. It will hurt, but I'll be as fast as I can. Are you—is that—can I do that?”

Esca glanced at his arm, turned back and nodded. His pursed lips had gone white and bloodless, but his eyes were calmer now as Marcus touched him. He continued to make eye contact until Marcus forced himself to move away. What he'd just seen in the Briton's face: trust, warmth, affection—that could all wait until later. Some time when he could afford the luxury of being rattled by what Esca had just showed him.

He felt his body and mind focus, they way they did before combat. Reached for the knives, metal blades glowing orange. Examined the wound one last time, while Vibonius leaned weight on the lower arm and Titus leaned on the torso. Located the injured spot, slowly filling with darker clots of blood. Pushed down the first blade, then the second while Esca gasped out something and fainted.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 The surgery went quickly; the smell unfortunately lasted much longer than Marcus had anticipated. When he finished the inside of Esca's elbow was a red, blistered, oozing mess but the bleeding had stopped and his arm quickly returned to a pale pink when they took off the homemade garrote. The coarse rope had broken through his skin and left a painful-looking band around his upper arm; nothing like his elbow, of course, but totally unnecessary and Marcus was certain if the roles had been reversed Esca would have had the presence of mind to prevent it.

For now, he rested by Esca, who hadn't woken up yet but whose breathing was normal. One of the legionnaires had come carrying a small flask of mead and a lump of hard cheese, and when Esca did wake (Marcus decided he could sleep as long as he liked—it gave him a bit more time to think up some clever explanations, plus Esca probably needed the rest as well) he thought the Briton might want something to eat. Gather his strength before they made their next journey and all.

Actually, Marcus began to think maybe Esca should wake up sooner rather than later, because the mead was pretty decent—strong, not too sweet and going straight to his head at the rate he kept taking small, exploratory sips to make sure it was reasonable for Esca to drink the mead. Or something like that.

He rubbed his hands over his face. _Oh dear_.

Things that would need to be explained to Esca when he woke up: the horse, the travel, the lodgings.

The black horse had come back. (One of the soldiers, stepping out into the woods to take a piss, had spotted it wandering along, snuffling around for clover with its bridle dragging through the grass.) All their possessions (mostly the eagle and their weapons) were already packed up on the horse, which they would be getting on after Esca woke up and could stand. They were leaving the river, traveling with Vibonius, who had offered to let them stay at his farmstead for the next few nights. And they had to leave soon, before nightfall, in case any more Seal People or rogue warriors showed up.

Yeah, that about covered it.

The pyre had burned itself out, taking Guern and Marcus' little carved eagle and Esca's knife with it. Most of the old legionnaires had left, too, vanishing back to the woods and their lives after paying their respects to Guern and the eagle. Marcus didn't fault them for wanting to leave; most had considered themselves Britons for nearly 20 years now, as long as they'd been Roman. Honor and pride and the old glories of the army were nice to revisit, but at the end of the day they had wives and children and farms that needed tending. No doubt Vibonius wanted to return to his, too. Maybe he should see if Esca could make the journey now.

Esca had looked at him so oddly. So... fondly, almost. Marcus might have said tenderly, but that was the mead talking. It was a look he'd given the horse that died under him, a look he'd also given to Rónán when he held the small boy's hand or gave him a little carved toy. Very different from the Esca he knew: stubborn, proud, angry, reserved. Hell, Marcus couldn't even recall if Esca had ever even smiled at him. Of course, he'd been The Master until very recently.

He glanced across the river to Ronan's grave. Pictured Esca and Ronan holding hands. Remembered how Esca had touched him on the cheek and promised to return, right after Marcus had freed him. (Correction: right after Esca had _tricked_ Marcus into freeing him.) He wondered what it would be like to hold Esca's hand and have the Briton smile at him—

Marcus shook his head, trying to push away these stupid, sentimental thoughts. He glared at the flask. _Fucking mead. Fucking blood loss. Fucking exhaustion. Fucking everything_.

Fuck it.

Marcus reached over and placed his hand on Esca's. Ran his thumb over Esca's reddened knuckles, over the blueish veins crossing the back of his palm. Esca shifted, opened his eyes and looked down at Marcus' hand, now frozen in place on top of his own. They looked at each other for a long moment.

Esca smiled.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Still smiling, Esca turned his head away from Marcus. He also turned his outstretched hand so it could squeeze Marcus' back. Marcus felt his stomach drop into someplace just north of his kneecaps. Esca closed his eyes and lay there unmoving, gone so still he almost looked like he had fainted again except that the pressure on Marcus' hand remained steady.

Marcus had no idea how to respond. He had also temporarily forgotten how to speak Latin. After approximately two hours of this (probably actually much less than two hours, since Marcus managed to hold his breath the entire time) Esca removed his hand and began gingerly poking at his injured arm.

“Did the surgery go well? I'm still alive and have both arms. That's good.”

Marcus rediscovered Latin, and his lungs. “Very well. It was over fast, the bleeding stopped right away and the wound looks very clean. It's going to hurt, however.”

Esca winced. “I noticed that already. Can I take a look at it?”

“It might be better if you wait until tonight, when we can change the dressing and put some sort of salve on it. Why don't you start by sitting up?”

“Might as well. I'll need your help—my legs are numb.” So Marcus helped him up. It took a rather larger amount of effort than either of them was pleased with. Esca felt so dizzy from the position change that he had to lean back against the log previously propping up his legs. He gave Marcus a look of massive and total frustration.

“I feel like we're right back to the marsh-fever again, only there's no Stephanos hassling me.” He shook his head in warning. “Don't try to force soup into me.”

“You're only dizzy because you lost so much blood. And if there was any soup to be had I'd have eaten it myself, hours ago.”

“I hope no rogue warriors show up. Vibonius would have to take them on alone.”

Marcus shifted uneasily. “Actually, since you bring that up—no, forget that. Eat some food, and while you're eating I need to tell you about an idea for tonight. Plans. Tentative plans.” He handed Esca the half-empty flask and the lump of cheese. Esca pounced. He took a large swig of the mead, a mouthful of cheese, paused, turned his head to the side and spat everything out while throwing the cheese in the river.

“Gods! What is the matter with this food? Why would you give me that?”

“That food was fine a moment ago—I had some myself!” Marcus stared longingly at where their dinner had vanished. “What—why would you—do you—don't you like... cheese? That was just cheese. I guess you don't. I don't think there's anything else...”

Esca leaned forward and rested his forehead on his knees. For a moment Marcus couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying or both. Possibly it was both, since when he finished he had to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I thought it was the last of our travel bread, gone terribly wrong somehow. I guess it is _gone_ , at least. My mistake, again... Shit. I don't want to hear about your plans for tonight, so don't tell me.”

Marcus took a long, deep breath. Esca the freedman was proving even more stubborn and independent than Esca the slave (if that was possible), and Esca the slave never took kindly to anyone making decisions for him. Especially his master. Unfortunately, his options were to tell Esca about what had already been decided while he was unconscious or just drag him along without an explanation. Neither option was good, but one was worse. And either, he suspected, was going to mean a swift end to the easy feelings between them.

“Listen. I didn't mean any of this as an insult—if you had been awake, of course we would have consulted your opinion, as much as anybody's. It's not because you're a freedman, it's only because you were asleep. But Vibonius and I—”

“Shut up. Shut up. _Shut up_! I do not care. I cannot care. Just _stop talking_.” Esca dropped his head back to his knees again. There was an extremely uncomfortable pause. When he started speaking again, his voice rasped.

“I'm tired, Master. I'm as tired as I've ever been in my whole life. I can't even tell the difference between bread and cheese, and if anyone attacked now I wouldn't lift my arms to stop them. I'm so tired I just want to cry, and if I start I don't know when I'll stop. I can hardly see straight, my arm hurts so much I'd be weeping if no one were around, and I've made too many stupid mistakes today. Mistakes out here get people killed. I don't want to make any more.”

He raised his good arm and draped it over Marcus' shoulders, pressing their heads close together. For a moment Marcus thought Esca might kiss him and the back of his neck prickled. Esca just spoke, however, but Marcus still felt his stomach drop with every word muttered into his ear. “So whatever your plans are, just do them and don't apologise. You're not a fool. I don't think you're going to leave me for the wolves. You stopped my arm bleeding better than I could have. Don't you know how much I trust you?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a little half smile and he ran his hand gently through Marcus' hair, alternating between dragging his fingernails along his scalp and tugging the hairs with his fist. “I'm so goddamn tired that I keep calling you _Master_. That's sad, actually, because this might be the one and only time I just go along with whatever you say. So good luck, _Marcus_.”

He gave the hair one last affectionate tug and let his arm drop back. Marcus swallowed very, _very_ hard and raised an arm to waive Vibonius over, because he had once again forgotten how language was supposed to work. Also his legs.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Vibonius led the horse while Marcus and Esca rode; Esca sat forward so Marcus could keep an eye on him in case he got too dizzy and started to fall. He cradled his injured left arm in his lap and tried to concentrate on not sliding off—this meant he ended up leaning back against Marcus more often than not. For balance. Marcus, for his part, stared straight ahead, looking over Esca's shoulder to the back of Vibonius' head. He placed a single hand lightly on Esca's hip. For balance.

Neither spoke or asked questions; they counted on Vibonius to get them through the woods to his farmstead and for their part didn't have anything to do except stay upright through the four hour ride.

As they moved out of the river bed and up into the surrounding woods, Esca had cast one last glance at the landscape and the surroundings below: the heap of ashes where the pyre used to be, the bodies laid out on the sand, the far banks with a lonely little cairn and three tiny primroses. They were already so far away that all he could see was a smudge of purple on the northernmost rock.

 _It's not a bad resting place, all in all. Peaceful, sunlight and trees, running water that heads to the sea. As good a burial as many get. Better than my family, who were dropped in a pit and covered with lime. Better also than the Romans with their hacked-off feet._

He frowned at this line of reasoning. Something about it felt very wrong.

 _That's because it's a terrible burial no matter what we did or didn't do. Because he was seven. Any grave for a seven-year-old is, by definition, terrible._

The reality of  Ronan 's death, that it had been completely preventable, ate away at him partially because — if he was really honest with himself — it probably hadn't been preventable at all. Tribal culture  had harsh penalties for traitors . Culture gave life and purpose and identity, a past and a future, but it had demands, too.  Impossible demands, sometimes, but you couldn't just choose some and leave the rest. Bravery, duty, religion, music,  history,  poetry; obedience, pride, custom.  Obedience: be a good wife—don't complain when he hits you. ( _Why_ did he hit Mam  like that ? No reason. He didn't need a reason.)  Pride: keep the family name honorable. (Esca'd had a sister, once.  She met a man from  an enemy  tribe at a summer market and ran off with him. They never  mentioned her again.)  Custom: follow the traditions of your ancestors. (Yes, he'd been a good slave and served the family for years—decades, even. He still did wrong, stepping over Mam on the floor, trying to stop Father for once. His  punishment was  perfectly fair .)

Esca didn't want any part of that culture, not anymore. He'd spent so many nights, eating strange foods and listening to strange accents, missing his home with every breath and trying to keep it all close in his memory. Of course, absence always makes the heart grow fonder. He'd forgotten all the parts he could never miss.

But leav ing the past behind  would be easier if he could see a  future  to head towards .

Why had he never run off? Because there was nothing to escape back to. No family, no tribe, no land, no property, no prospects. Being a slave had been one misery after another, up until the day in the arena when he decided not to fight any more, but it wasn't like he had a beautiful wife, a stable-full of horses and sacks of gold waiting for him  elsewhere . That was one way Romans controlled their slaves: take all hope away, have this pair of sandals in return. (Hey, it's better than going barefoot.)  Your family is dead.  And you're part of our familia now.

Technically he knew the Aquilas were considered his familia, even if he didn't understand  all  the legal implications of being a freedman. He just knew that Marcus was his patron, and... that  since he was no longer a  slave, he no longer got free food and shelter.

 _The future's off to a positive start, then._

He should probably ask Marcus for the details of his new obligations, if any. He hadn't because he didn't want to hear Marcus say that there were no more obligations, no more duties. Go home. Unfortunately, the closest thing Esca had felt to _home_ in years was sitting directly behind him on the horse, making his heart quiver like a boy going for his first chariot ride, and at some point they'd arrive at their destination and have to dismount.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Marcus spent most of the ride to Vibonius' farmstead trying to figure out whatever the hell had just happened. Defeating Liathan and the Seal People felt like a resolution, of sorts, but he knew he wouldn't sleep easily until they had passed the Wall and returned the eagle to the proper authorities. He didn't even feel like celebrating, to be honest; taking the eagle back had cost so much on both sides, so many brave men were dead, and if he had managed to learn more about his father's last days, well—good, yes, but it reminded him of his leg more than anything else.

His leg had made every day, every movement another bout of pain to be endured. It had been the focus of his life for months, the problem that woke him up in the middle of the night and ruled his movements during the day. Then, after a brief but terrifying surgery, scar tissue had formed and the muscle grew stronger, and one day it faded into the background, an annoyance and a limitation but nothing more. A part of him, but no longer all of him. That's what restoring his father's honor felt like; partially healed but never again whole.

 _While I'm thinking about injuries..._ He gave Esca's good arm a firm squeeze. “How are you feeling? How's your elbow?”

Esca glanced back at him, pale and worn. “It's bearable. I think it just feels worse than it could because I don't have anything to keep my mind off it. I hope we're getting close.”

Marcus nodded. “Vibonius, how much longer?”

“We're halfway there. Maybe two more hours.” Night had fallen and the breeze blew more gently now, but it was also much colder. Esca was shivering again.

“Do you think you can manage another two hours? Lean back and rest, if you want.” Esca didn't respond, but he did shift slightly so Marcus took more of his weight. Marcus then wrapped an arm around the smaller man's waist, to keep him securely on the horse, and leaned forward, resting his chin on Esca's shoulder. For balance.

Marcus let his mind drift back to the eagle in his sidepack, because it beat thinking about certain other problems that had arisen.

What would happen when they returned home to his Uncle's villa? For so many months he'd had no plans for the future, until the rumors of the eagle up north reached his ears. Then he'd had a goal (Romans loved goals). Now it was Goal Almost Accomplished, and he was back to—what? Spending his days playing latrunculi with Uncle Aquila and hunting boar with Esca? Probably not. For one thing he hated latrunculi with a passion bordering on violence. Also, Esca was leaving soon.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

Technically, he supposed he might try to make Esca stay. Claim rights as his patron and so on. Marcus could picture exactly how successfully that conversation would go.

 _And he's not even my type._ That was the really sad part,  how  Marcus  felt  like a stupid, lovesick 14-year-old who's just discovered that the  neighbor over the fence makes him go all jumpy inside. Marcus had always leaned towards, well—soldier-types. Taller and darker, solidly built with stoic dispositions, sloe-eyed, full Greek lips and lazy Greek smiles. Small, slight pale British types with proud attitudes and skinny arms and angry blue eyes never did anything for him (besides maybe want to buy them  something to eat).  He'd never even thought of Esca like  _that_ , although he supposed as his body slave he could've indulged in whatever he wanted.

(Marcus secretly tended towards the unRoman-opinion that bedroom activities were only fun if both people were enjoying themselves and were there because they preferred to be. Luckily, this hadn't slowed him down much, even if he never headed for the brothels in town like some of his fellow-soldiers. The soldiers who stayed behind had no complaints, either.)

Obviously something had changed. He couldn't even tell if this had all come on slowly, with distrust and frustration shifting into respect and friendship, or whether everything had happened at once.

 _Seeing someone you've become close to suddenly start bleeding to death does tend to... focus your attentions. Maybe that's it._

Anyways, it didn't matter. What mattered was the fact that Esca, for some reason, had let Marcus wrap an arm around his waist and settle onto his shoulder. What mattered was that they made a good hunting team, and the hunt was nearly at an end. Marcus hoped the next two hours took a week.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Esca was drifting in and out of a fitful sleep and Marcus was trying to gauge just how much his leg was going to hurt in the morning when they finally arrived at Vibonius' roundhouse. Dogs rushed out, circling the horse and yapping a hello. Vibonius helped Marcus down, Marcus caught Esca when he half-slid, half-fell and then the three men staggered into the main hut. A fire smoked in the center of the tamped earth, a woman who had been dozing by a cooking pot stood as they entered, and a small red-headed girl rushed over to throw her arms around Vibonius' waist.

Vibonius' wife gave her husband a look of mingled relief that he had returned while throwing a _who-the-hell-are-they_ glance in their guests' direction. He spoke quickly, gesturing to the pot and a pile of hay near the door. Esca managed a few polite-sounding phrases in British before dropping on to the hay; Marcus stood around awkwardly until Esca pulled him down too. Vibonius stepped out briefly, stabling their horse while his wife offered bowls of warm stew and their daughter stared at them openly.

The stew had been warming so long that the meat fell apart when they tried to pick it up. It was (they later agreed) the best stew that had come from any cooking pot, anywhere, ever.

While they ate the wife rummaged in a wicker box and finally produced a single woven blanket and a somewhat moth-eaten wolf pelt. The daughter carried them over to Esca while Vibonius and his wife talked and nodded over their own bowls of food. He smiled up at her and bobbed his head.

“Go raibh maith agat. 'S mise Esca. Cad is ainm duit?” The girl seemed delighted that one of the strangers spoke something close to her language.

“Ta failte romhat! 'S mise Riona.” She suddenly blushed. “Slan, Esca.” She ran back and hid behind her father, then alternated between picking out bits of turnip from his stew and peeping at the strangers while she licked her fingers. Esca stared at her for a moment, a look of shock and sorrow passing over his face, and then gulped the last of his stew and set the bowl down too hard on the ground. Everyone in the hut paused and glanced in his direction. Marcus touched him on the hand.

“Are you alright? Is it your arm? I can take a look.”

“No, I'm just tired. We'll look at the arm in the morning.” He jerked his hand away.

Marcus tried to shrug casually. “Sure, up to you. If it's not feeling—”

“Great.” Esca threw the pelt over one shoulder, curled into a ball on top of the hay and fell asleep.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Marcus startled suddenly at the sound of dogs barking in the distance, glancing around with the sleep-heavy anxiety of someone who couldn't quite remember where he was or how he'd gotten there. He automatically reached out for his sidepack and felt for the solid wings of the eagle. Good—still there. As he slowly remembered yesterday's events he considered relaxing back to sleep, until he noticed the absence; no one was lying in the hay next to him. He woke up.

Shafts of late-morning sunlight poured in through the door, lighting up the smoky roundhouse. Vibonius wasn't around but Esca sat by the fire talking in a low voice with the woman they'd met last night. She had unwrapped his elbow and was dabbing something greasy-looking on the fresh burns while Esca winced and grimaced. He managed to keep up a good rate of conversation in between the wincing, and they laughed quietly and chatted and sipped on cups of something warm and steaming. The little girl with the red hair sat just outside the door, not playing with the rag doll in her lap, just watching him carefully as if he might grow wings or something. Marcus smiled at her and gave a little wave. The girl squealed, lept to her feet and ran straight past him to her mother—no, worse, to Esca—and hid behind him while pointing at Marcus and rattling off a stream of British. Esca glanced up from his elbow and made eye contact over the fire, trying to hide a smile that kept tweaking the corner of his mouth.

Damn it. Yet one more thing Esca did better than Marcus.

The girl's mother smacked her on the shoulder and shook a warning finger. She then made a gesture in his direction that was promptly waved off by Esca. They discussed something involving Marcus for a moment (while Marcus sulked in the hay, wishing he'd taken the time during their journey to start learning British) and then Esca stood, stretching, and walked stiffly over to Marcus, carrying a cup of the steaming liquid. He offered it with smirk.

“Watered mead—good for breakfast, or lunch in this case. Hungry?”

“Desperately. Is it really that late? How long have you been up?”

“It's almost lunch, yes, but they understand. Vibonius told them you were sort of crippled so they just let you sleep.” He waited until Marcus looked properly annoyed and then added “I've been up feeding the ducks and helping with the horses, so don't feel like we're just taking advantage of them.”

Marcus tried to scowl at this but Esca's smile had changed from smirking to happy and he could feel his freedman's good mood spreading. For a moment he just sipped the mead and tried to enjoy the sunshine. He liked seeing Esca so obviously assured, almost in his element here in the roundhouse. Back at the villa he always seemed on edge, standing on his pride, either slightly hesitant as if he didn't quite know how to behave properly or stiff and awkward because he did know how to behave properly and didn't want to. At the Seal Camp he'd been quiet and formal, as was proper for a previously unknown guest. Here at Vibonius' home he acted more confident and comfortable in his own skin than Marcus had ever seen before. Unfortunately, his mind kept traveling back to _why_ Esca seemed so happy and relaxed, and he didn't think he wanted to know the answer. So instead he asked to see his elbow.

Esca offered it to him. The burns had darkened in color, but the whole wound looked cleaner and better than it had yesterday, and was half-covered with some sort of fatty paste—grease and herbs, Esca explained, that would draw out the heat and help keep it from festering.

“She's done a good job with it!”

“It's hard to go wrong with grease and herbs.” He paused, eyes roaming the room, and then looked down at his own cup of mead. “Sorry to shrug you off last night.”

“You were beyond tired. There's no need.”

“But it wasn't about being tired. It was... I got caught off guard. Maybe I should explain. Actually, I should explain—want to go for a walk? Nothing too tough.”

Suddenly, Marcus was pretty sure he didn't want to hear whatever Esca had to say. But that was a bit like burning out a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding—best to just grit his teeth and get it over with. He stood and stretched, his hands brushing the low roof, and the red-headed girl gasped. He glanced down at Esca, feeling grim.

“Let's go, then.”

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Esca led Marcus out past the stable, a round barn, a small plowed patch for the coming garden and a field containing the last of the winter wheat. He swung over a stone fence and headed through a round green pasture scattered with sheep and lambs wearing tiny felted coats, bleating and sniffing the grass and running into each other. _It must be their first day out of the barn_ , he thought. _I hope there aren't any_ _rams around_. By the time he noticed Marcus struggling to catch up with him, he had nearly reached the other side of the pasture. _The fence must have been tricky for his leg. I should have thought of that. More mistakes_. He chose a sunny patch of the stone wall and eased himself up onto it, patting a spot next to him as he did so. Marcus hopped up next to him, clumsily. They sat in silence, watching the lambs hop past.

 _I don't know how to tell him what I need to say, mostly because I'm not sure I want to hear his response._   
Eventually he decided to simply begin. It probably wouldn't matter, in the long run.

“You don't seem as glad as I had expected. You've got the eagle, we defeated the Seal People, you've restored your family's honor; shouldn't you act like a triumphant Roman now?”

Marcus gave a short unhappy laugh. “We're not home yet. And even if we were...” he    
let the thought trail    
off. “   
You seem happy enough, though. It's almost    
strange   
, actually, seeing you act so comfortable and easy. Roundhouses must suit you.”

“Low ceilings are great when you're short. And piles of hay to sleep on, and cooking fires and being around people who speak my language—it's nice. But I thought it would be nicer. Maybe that's what I was upset about last night.”

For that small admission he received an unreadable look, but nothing more. So he continued, “I spent so many years, just wanting to be back here, eat the food and sleep in the blankets and feel like I had come home. Now I'm here, I've done it and it's... no longer what I had hoped for.”

“Maybe a bit like dedicating years to restoring your family's honor, including requesting to be posted to northern Britain and dragging yourself and your seriously reluctant slave all over the highlands looking for the rumored eagle, and then discovering, when you've somehow succeeded, that it's nowhere near as satisfying as you told yourself it would be?” Marcus, who had started with an outburst of frustration, trailed off into muttering. “Just guessing.” 

Esca fought down an urge to pull him off the wall, throw him on the ground and do things that would startle the lambs. _Maybe later._ “That's pretty close to it, actually. So, last night. I was upset and I didn't explain why. That girl—did you catch her name?”

Marcus hung his head in partial mock-shame. “I really, really with I'd told you to teach me some British. Asked, I mean. Um. Anyways, I haven't caught a name yet or any words or anything.”

That earned him a mischevious smile. “We'll work on the British, if you want, and now you can relax and not wonder if I'm just teaching you all the impolite things to get you in trouble with the women.” Esca's smile faded. “The girl's name is Riona. It startled me, because I—” _why is this so hard to say?_ “—because I used to have a sister named Riona, and I hadn't heard that name for a long time.”

“You never mentioned a sister before. Romans again, I'm sure. I'm sorry.” Marcus' shoulders sagged, but Esca shook his head furiously. His face had grown tense with anger.

“That's the worst of it—it wasn't Romans at all. It was _us_. When I told you about the rest of my family dying, and I said 'Rome did that'? Well, the Blue Shield Brigantes can claim credit for her. She'd met a man from a tribe that was rival to the Blue Shields, and when she ran off with him my father said no one could ever speak of her again. We had to ignore her when we saw her at the market, even when she came up to us crying and begging for forgiveness. It nearly killed my Mam. You know I've hardly dared to even think her name until now? Why? Is my father going to come back from the dead to punish me?” He was getting worked up now, out of ways to hold back. “You remember that I once said your laws were more just than ours? That's what I meant. Straight roads, organized armies, laws and courts rather than blood-feuds and constant fighting. Medicine that can heal legs like yours. Writing that anyone is allowed to learn, not just the priests. There's plenty I don't like about you Romans, but I'll tell you this—no Roman would have killed his 7-year-old son for being a traitor.”

Marcus licked at his suddenly dry lips. “That was just the Seal People who—”

“ _No._ It wasn't. No. My father would have done the same to me. And as much as I missed the roundhouses and the language and the lands I don't miss all the rest. I can't just live up here and be comfortable, because I'd spend too much of my time not fitting in, fighting the most pointless traditions, and everyone would say I'd 'Gone Roman'. I don't belong here anymore.”

 _And that scares me because now I don't belong anywhere_.

His former master took a very long, slow breath as if he was trying to wrap his head around Esca's outburst and not quite succeeding. “I understand. I can see how all that would upset you.”

Esca pushed on, all pent up fury. “It's even worse, actually, and no—I don't think you understand at all. You've got a home and a life to go back to now, and I don't. You've got a future and opportunities and I don't even know how I'm going to get food to eat! Do you really think your uncle is just going to let me hang around and soak in his baths?”

Marcus laughed, which startled them both. “You couldn't enjoy being free even two days without starting to worry, could you? Esca, you're talking to a man who just spent a year watching all his dreams of soldier-glory collapse while he lost at latrunculi and wondered if he would ever be able to walk again. You think I liked hanging around the villa with Uncle Aquila doing nothing? I actually do know what it's like to stare at a totally empty future and not know how to fill it.”

“But at least you fit in somewhere. I'm not Roman, and can never be British enough again, and where does that leave me?” Esca felt indignant that Marcus wasn't sharing this anger.

“I'm not a perfect Roman either, not anymore. I stopped thinking you British were all barbarians, for one thing, I don't want to get married to some girl and have proper Roman children, and I don't really like the glories of conquering other people like I should. _You_ taught me that.” Marcus paused; he couldn't stop smiling now, like he'd just had a wonderful idea and wanted to share it with everyone. Esca wondered what the hell he was thinking, and why he looked so damn happy.

 _I just emptied my heart out to you and you, Marcus, you bastard, you look delighted._

Marcus continued, “As for where you fit in, I think that's pretty obvious. Stand up and I'll show you.”

Esca considered raging at how relentlessly cheerful and positive his friend was acting. But that's wouldn't do any good; it was impossible to un-cheer Marcus when the mood overtook him. So he stood, reluctantly because for once he had no idea what was about to happen. _It's better when I know what's about to happen—it gives me time to d_ _odge_.

Marcus, still sitting, motioned Esca around until he was standing directly in front of him. They were at the same eye level for once. Then he reached out with both hands, took Esca gently by the belt and pulled until he was standing in between Marcus' legs and completely pinned down by his arms in a careful (mind the elbow!) but firm embrace. Marcus, ignoring vague noises of protest, kissed him lightly on the forehead, softly on the ear and then hungrily on the lips. He pulled away just as Esca started to come down from the shock and stared straight into his blue eyes, noses almost touching.

“See? You fit just about perfectly, right here.”

And he let go.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

Esca took a step back, mouth open in astonishment. Then he shut it, very deliberately, while glaring at Marcus with a look of white-hot Brigante fury. Marcus swallowed hard.

 _That may not have worked quite as I planned._

“You. Marcus Flavius Aquila. _You_. You were my _master_. For how long? And you never once so much as looked at me, at your body slave, and you could have taken me whenever you pleased and I wouldn't have complained because you would have at least been fairer than my other masters were, and now, now, NOW you all of a—and you just think—you... explain.” he trailed off lamely, spluttering.

“Easy. I don't sleep with slaves, because I don't think it's much fun. And if you don't sleep with men then that settles the issue, and I can start trying to get you out of my mind.” Marcus spoke much more calmly than he felt; his heart threatened to leap out and head for higher ground. “But if you do, and I assure you I definitely do, then we are going to make this work.”

Esca shook his head back and forth slowly. “I don't see how.”

 _Come on, think, Aquila, THINK..._

“You don't know what to do next. I don't know what to do next, either. So we should stay with each other and figure it out together.”

Esca finally smiled at this, that slow, smirking corner-of-the-mouth smile that Marcus could never quite interpret. “That's very stupid, you know. We're just going to wander around Britain, on horseback, fucking? We'll starve.”

Marcus actually colored a little; Esca almost never swore around him. Probably slave instincts. He pressed on. “We make a good hunting team.    
Even though th   
is hunt is almost   
done   
, that doesn't mean we have to    
stop    
and    
go our seperate ways.   
”

“You will return home to your uncle's villa and I will have to go elsewhere. I won't stay there as a slave, and I can't stay there as a freedman. I'm good at figuring out how to take care of myself—I'm not going to rely on you any longer. I'm my own man now.” Esca's arguments were good, but rather half-hearted. Marcus had never been so happy to hear him sound demoralized.

“Didn't you just say you wanted a home?”

“Bastard!” Esca spat out at him, startling a lamb that had wandered nearby. “Are you laughing at me? Is it funny to you, that I'm all alone? Does that make it easier for you?” He turned his back and stared at the curl of smoke rising from the distant roundhouse. Marcus could see his shoulders, rising and falling with each angry breath. He couldn't tell if this was Esca's normal level of anger or something new.

 _If this is my last chance, I might as do my best._   


“Just listen, for a moment, and don't say anything until I'm done. If you can manage that. You want a place where you will fit. So do I, and it's not going to be at my uncle's, or in the army, or in high society or anywhere else I can think of so far. But.” He paused for a moment, hoping the idea wouldn't sound as stupid out loud as it sounded in his head, and closed his eyes to avoid whatever looks Esca was about to throw at him. “When people get married they take two different families and join them together to make something new, their own familia. Or tribe. Obviously we're not going to get married. But if we live together it will be like forming our own tribe, with a not-quite-a-perfect-Briton and a not-quite-a-perfect-Roman. It would be a very small tribe, of course, but with its own kind of laws and rules and the best parts of British and Roman life. And you'd belong there, as much as I would, and it would be home. For us.”

He opened his eyes. Esca was inches from him with a blank expression on his face and tightly pursed lips. He babbled on.

“We could make it work, maybe not right away but with—”

Esca slapped a hand over his mouth and glared at him. “Marcus Flavius Aquila, stop talking. Now.”

“Why?” he said through Esca's fingers.

“Because I am trying to burn this into my mind, what you have just said. So that every time in the future, when you do something that seems stupid and I think 'well, of course that's stupid because I'm the clever one, not him' I'll remember this idea of yours.”

“Does that mean it's a good idea or the worst one yet?”

Esca shuts his eyes. He never liked concessions. “It's a good idea.”

Marcus let the start of a wide, happy Roman smile cross his face. His heart couldn't decide whether to leap out and run around the pasture or just sink into his knees again. “Does this mean I convinced you?”

Esca frowned and shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. I convinced myself ages ago, while you were rambling on.” He dropped his head and looked at the grass; somehow his eyes looked less... steady than usual. “I wasn't sure if you actually meant it, or if you just wanted some celebratory, now-we-found-the-eagle-let's-have-at-it sex.”

Marcus put on his absolutely best, most dependable and steady Roman face. He was sure it wouldn't fool Esca for even a moment, but sometimes the effort was what counted. “If I only get one of those options, you know which one I want.”

Esca put on his best British-scorn face. “Liar.” He swung himself up and over the fence, dropping down lightly on the other side, out of the pasture. After looking all around—scanning for errant rams, bears or small red-headed girls—he tugged on Marcus' belt. “Come on. Get up.”

“Why are we going over here?”

Esca smiled with one corner of his mouth. “Because it's bad luck in many British tribes to startle the lambs on their first day out in pasture.” He stopped tugging on Marcus' belt and started untying it.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Quick hookups between strangers tend to be uncomplicated; play by the rules, ask permission before you put things in unexpected places, negotiate potentially awkward requests, don't get personally involved.

Encounters between acquaintences can be the most tricky because both parties know each other but not terribly well; both hold incorrect assumptions and have surface knowledge of the other person but nothing much deeper, there's not enough emotional intimacy to feel trusting and too much potential for embarrassment at mutual social gatherings later on.

Sex between friends who (they could now admit) had been secretly lusting after each other for, oh, more than a few months should be easy and comfortable; luckily, that turned out to be mostly the case.

There's a certain amount of hesitancy, mostly due to things like the realization that althought you might have helped him with his tunic a thousand times before, getting him ready for bed or easing him into the baths, this time you were helping him take it off because you were about to finally find out exactly what happened if you put his nipples into your mouth, licked gently, sucked harder and then blew a small but steady stream of cool air over them while watching them go crinkly, their small dark erections matching a much larger erection under the braccae that you would definitely get to at some point.

There's still the occasional need to pause and ask for instructions, like when you realize that all your vague, background tribal knowledge is effectively useless, because while it might make you feel superior to other Romans to know that Britons tend to be cut in a barbaric coming-of-age ritual, that knowledge doesn't help in the least when you are suddenly confronted with a very hard and very foreskin-free penis in your hand, and you're not sure whether to just spit in your palm and push it up and down the shaft, which seems to get a positive reaction, or run slow swirls around the swollen head, red and full, and slide your thumb down over the slit, pushing clear drops of pre-cum down over the back of the cock, which seems strangely naked and defenseless (if it's even possible for it to ever look _more_ naked) without that familiar sheath of skin you've grown up manipulating.

Cultural misunderstandings are bound to crop up, such as when Esca gasped out that he was getting close, and would Marcus put a finger in him, now please, and Marcus froze because he would never, ever dishonor his friend like that, so Esca said _F_ _ine, put your mouth on me then_ but when Marcus leaned down to suck on on his now-swollen lower lip Esca shook him off and said _N_ _ot there_ all tight-voiced urgency and lust, but surely Esca didn't want to dishonor him either, and while he paused in confusion Esca arched his back, stomach muscles rippling, thrusting his hips into Marcus' tightly cupped hand and came all over his fist, then collapsed back onto the wet grass panting and muttering that Marcus was lucky how much he loved him, because there were definitely going to be some things they needed to work out, preferrably at a less distracting time.

First-time sex doesn't usually have to take into account injured legs and burned arms that make it difficult to roll around on each other and pin limbs to the ground and remove braccae that have become unfortunately tight due to rather large erections trapped beneath them. Such is life.

It does come with unexpected moments of delight, like finally removing the damned braccae (which turned out to be a two-person job) and pausing to admire your new lover's impressively large and impressively eager cock, as he stands there naked and leaning back against the dry-stone wall to guard against too much strain on his leg, with this unsteady smile on his face, and the knowledge that he's hard and happy because of you, because of _you_ , hits you so hard behind the ribs that you almost stumble onto your knees from emotion and lust and that lust only increases when he misinterprets this and pushes you back slightly, saying _No, Esca, I couldn't ask it of you_ and finally you have the presence of mind to say _But I thought we got to make our own laws_ _now_ and he caves so quickly, so enthusiastically gasps out _That's a good law, then_ that you wonder just how long he's pictured this moment, with you wrapping your small pink lips around that cock and sucking and swallowing deep and closing your eyes at the enjoyment of how earthy and salty and familiar he tastes, until he throws his head back with one hand clutching at the stone wall and the other tangled in your hair and he's whispering _oh gods, Esca, oh Esca_ as he comes in you.

Most first-time sex, of whatever type, doesn't end in a mad scramble for hastily-discarded clothes when your exhausted, heaving, post-fucking sprawl—limbs tangled together while he plays with your fair hair and whispers that was so much better than he'd ever imagined, that it doesn't seem to have dishonored you at all and that we should definitely try more, and soon—is interrupted by the clear piping voice of a small red-headed British girl, _look at the lambs, Father! Take me to see the lambs!_

But there's a first time for everything.


End file.
